Big, “Bad” Emotions! No More "Sucking It Up, Buttercup": A Better Way - Insights from a Kid’s Story, Rumi, and Internal Family Systems

“We often find that the harder we try to get rid of emotions and thoughts, the stronger they become….” ― Richard C. Schwartz, No Bad Parts: Healing Trauma and Restoring Wholeness with the Internal Family Systems Model

Yesterday I heard my younger son reading aloud one of my favorite children’s books. The Rabbit Listened.  Though the book is meant for kids, whenever I hear it, I choke up. I also smile.  Something like peaceful understanding settles into my bones.

In the story, a child named Taylor builds something wonderful, only to have it fall apart. That resonates with me.  I know how things fall apart in life…things I love and care about deeply.

Stuff happens (you may have seen a somewhat similar bumper sticker).  It’s life. And the idea is we’re supposed to suck it up, Buttercup.

But maybe there’s a better way. A way that doesn’t separate us from ourselves and from others. It's a way that acknowledges our adventures in being human while opening the door for our Inner Wisdom to surface.

In the story Taylor’s animal acquaintances want to help him after his wonderfully and carefully constructed tower falls.  In the critters come. For example:

The chicken – “let’s talk about, let’s talk about.” The bear wants to yell. The elephant wants to remember. The ostrich advises forgetting all about.

Taylor says nothing. They all eventually leave.

Then the rabbit comes. Tenderly. Quietly. Compassionately. The rabbit doesn't talk, fix, or suggest. The rabbit just sits and listens. That’s all…And it’s everything.

I thought, “That listening, present, little rabbit is the big hero of the story.” And not just Taylor’s story. Ours too. The listener allows our own Wise Self to naturally emerge.

The listener can be inside us or beside us. The listener doesn’t fall into the redeemer, rescuer, or know-it-all role (a trap we must learn to avoid…talking to myself here and bet some others as well).

The truth is, we’ve all had our towers fall. We’ve all felt flooded with noise—some from outside, and a whole lot from the inside.

Some days I wake up and the chicken in me is already flapping, telling me I need to do something now. Other times, the bear stomps in, wanting to roar. Then there’s the part of me that just wants to pretend none of it happened and go make a cup of tea.

We all carry a whole cast of characters inside us. And while some people may call that neurotic, I’m not one of them.  What is it then that’s happening to us?

I call it being human. And it's quite a challenging adventure getting all of our selves working together for our own and others' good.

We are a chorus of parts.  In fact, there’s a therapy called Internal Family Systems, or IFS, that teaches us something children seem to know intuitively: we’re made up of many voices.

We might have an inner critic, an inner child, a worrier, a fixer, a judge, a protector, and a dreamer—all living under one roof, so to speak. They all chime in when something goes wrong. They each have their own opinion about what we should do next.

In Taylor’s case (in the children’s story), the tower crashing down brought out every voice in the forest. Same thing happens in us.

The chicken (inside of us or outside of us) says, “Let’s talk it out.” The bear growls, “Fight back!” The ostrich begs, “Let’s just not feel this.” And then, of course, someone whispers, “This must be your fault.”

They’re all trying to help, in their own way. Even the harsh ones. They just learned their lines a long time ago, maybe when we were five or fifteen, trying to survive something hard.

And here’s where the rabbit becomes such a beautiful character. The rabbit is gently present. Just listens.

When Taylor is finally met with silence and warm presence, the healing begins. The child talks, cries, remembers, imagines. There’s space for it all.

The rabbit doesn’t say, “Here’s what you should do.” The rabbit simply is. Still. Present. Kind. Quiet. (If this sounds a lot like Grandmothers sitting on the friendship bench from a previous blog, I quite agree.)

Now, most of us have learned to either ignore our feelings or do whatever they tell us to do. We get stuck between suppressing or exploding, between shutting down or charging ahead.

But there’s another way. A listening way. A wise way.

When we meet our inner voices not with panic or obedience—but with curiosity and compassion—something shifts. The Wise Self surfaces. We start to see those parts as just that: parts, aspects of us. Not the whole of who we are. And we begin to listen—not so we can act on every emotion, but so we can understand it, hold it gently, and decide what to do next with discernment.

Here’s a real-life-rabbit-emerging-wisdom story.

A close friend of mine—I’ll call her Jean—had her heart broken by someone she trusted. She felt betrayed. She felt furious. She wanted to send a scathing email.

Jean also felt ashamed, and wanted to curl up and disappear. Then she had a wave of sadness so deep she could hardly breathe.

“I don’t know what to do,” she told me finally.

Luckily, I had already read the kid’s book. Hah! (And I knew about the Grandmothers’ Friendship Bench.) Bottomline, I knew to be quiet (hard for me to do!). I tenderly listened.

Jean looked at me. Cried a bit.  Gave me a hug and said, “thanks for listening.”

Then Jean said, “I know you believe that we have lots of different voices inside of us. Like an angry part, a hurt part.  I know you think we can just sit with them.”

“Yes”, I said. “And listen.”

Jean did exactly that. She made tea, pulled up a chair for each part in her imagination, and let them speak.

The angry one raged. The sad one sobbed. The critic wagged his finger. She thanked them all. And eventually, something quiet and clear rose to the surface. Her Wise Self—that calm, steady one, the one who patiently listened to all the parts—knew what to do.

Jean didn’t send the email. She went for a walk and later wrote a letter she never mailed, just to process the feelings. Then she wrote a different kind of letter to herself, full of compassion. That was the real healing.

Sometimes we’re not the Taylor in the story. We’re the person watching someone else’s tower fall. As was I with Jean. As the rabbit was with Taylor in the story.

And when that happens, we might feel the urge to fix it, explain it, compare it, reframe it, or cheer it up. Like all those critters. I know that happens to me.

I saw it happen recently when a teen girl was crying.  Someone came up to me to tell me that the girl was crying. 

“Yes”, she’s sad. “We can sit beside her.”

Others were applying wildly weird tactics in an effort to divert the teen from her feelings.  One even tried to tickle the crying girl. You know, to make her happy.

The teen became angry, “Why are they doing these things? Can’t they let me be sad?  I am leaving for the summer.  It’s a normal thing to be sad when you leave people you love…even if you’re coming back.”

But that’s the problem.  Sometimes we are uncomfortable allowing people to be with their emotions.  And…we’re afraid to be with our own emotions.

It sounds and feels counter intuitive to us to let people experience their emotions. Especially those emotions we call “negative” or dark. Fear, anger, grief, sadness, disappointment need to just go away we wrongly believe.  We’re not wired for that.  Those emotions are there for a reason. They want to be seen and heard and understood before they take an exit. Before they offer whatever gift they may bring.

We can remind ourselves that often, the very best thing we can do is take a deep breath, quiet our inner fixer, and just be compassionate, present to the experience.

Sit beside someone. Let them talk—or not talk. Let them cry, rage, remember, go quiet. Offer the gift of our presence, not our solutions.

It might feel like we’re not doing enough. But make no mistake: it’s sacred work. Listening is what allows the pain to be seen and feel heard. It’s healing for ourselves and for others.

If we want to be that kind of listener, that kind of healer, here’s what helps according to compassion teachers:

• Take your own emotional temperature. Can you be calm and tender? If not, take care of yourself first. Our own compassion mentor called that “taking the U-turn.”

• Put away your to-do list. Presence can’t be rushed.

• Say less. Silence can be the softest blanket.

• When you do speak, try simple phrases:

  
  

  “I’m here.”

  
  

  “That sounds so hard.”

  
  

  “Tell me more, if you want.”

  
  

Your calm presence may allow them to listen to themselves.

As I previously mentioned IFS teaches that inside each of us is a Wise Self—the part that’s naturally compassionate, calm, connected, centered, and understanding. It doesn’t panic. It doesn’t judge. It listens. It makes room. It helps us discern how to go forward. Some spiritual people view this as God with us, or God within us – Imago Dei, or our True Self. Others may regard this as our integrated, mature self.

However you hold the concept – God, Imago Dei, Wise Self, True Self, or mature self… once we melt into it, our inner world finds balance. We are centered in peace. We become a refuge for ourselves and for one another.

In a world full of barking bears and squawking chickens, the quiet listener (who allows the Wise Self to surface) is a revolutionary.

You don’t need a degree or a title to do this work. We just need a willingness to pause, to soften, and to listen—whether it is to the ache inside ourselves or to the story spilling out of a friend’s trembling voice.

Because when we do, something magical happens. The storm quiets. The fog lifts. And someone—maybe you, maybe the other, maybe both—takes a deep breath and says, “I think I’m ready to build again.”

How might we learn to notice and listen to all of our inner parts and allow our Wise Self to surface?  How might we learn to sit with others so they can do the same?

Now, if you want the ideas in this article wrapped up into one whole enchilada - take a seat, breathe, be still, and read this ancient poem:

The Guest House 

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

by Rumi (Persian poet from the 13th century and yes, we’ve been wondering how to squeeze out the wisdom and work effectively with these big “bad” emotions for a very long time)